NARRATIVE OF THE MASSACRE, CONTINUED.
The morning of the 15th arrived. All things were in readiness, and nine
o'clock was the hour named for starting.
Mr. Kinzie, having volunteered to accompany the troops in their march,
had intrusted his family to the care of some friendly Indians, who
promised to convey them in a boat around the head of Lake Michigan to a
point[34] on the St. Joseph's River, there to be joined by the troops,
should the prosecution of their march be permitted them.
Early in the morning Mr. Kinzie received a message from To-pee-nee-bee,
a chief of the St. Joseph's band, informing him that mischief was
intended by the Pottowattamies who had engaged to escort the detachment,
and urging him to relinquish his design of accompanying the troops by
land, promising him that the boat containing himself and family should
be permitted to pass in safety to St. Joseph's.
Mr. Kinzie declined acceding to this proposal, as he believed that his
presence might operate as a restraint upon the fury of the savages, so
warmly were the greater part of them attached to himself and his family.
The party in the boat consisted of Mrs. Kinzie and her four younger
children, their nurse Josette, a clerk of Mr. Kinzie's, two servants and
the boatmen, besides the two Indians who acted as their protectors. The
boat started, but had scarcely reached the mouth of the river, which, it
will be recollected, was here half a mile below the fort, when another
messenger from To-pee-nee-bee arrived to detain them where they were.
There was no mistaking the reason of this detention.
In breathless anxiety sat the wife and mother. She was a woman of
uncommon energy and strength of character, yet her heart died within her
as she folded her arms around her helpless infants, and gazed upon the
march of her husband and eldest child to certain destruction.
As the troops left the fort, the band struck up the Dead March. On they
came, in military array, but with solemn mien. Captain Wells took the
lead at the head of his little band of Miamis. He had blackened his face
before leaving the garrison, in token of his impending fate. They took
their route along the lake shore. When they reached the point where
commenced a range of sand-hills intervening between the prairie and the
beach, the escort of Pottowattamies, in number about five hundred, kept
the level of the prairie, instead of continuing along the beach with the
Americans and Miamis.
They had marched perhaps a mile and a half, when Captain Wells, who had
kept somewhat in advance with his Miamis, came riding furiously back.
"They are about to attack us," shouted he; "form instantly, and charge
upon them."
Scarcely were the words uttered, when a volley was showered from among
the sand-hills. The troops were hastily brought into line, and charged
up the bank. One man, a veteran of seventy winters, fell as they
ascended. The remainder of the scene is best described in the words of
an eye-witness and participator in the tragedy, Mrs. Helm, the wife of
Captain (then Lieutenant) Helm, and step-daughter of Mr. Kinzie.
* * * * *
"After we had left the bank the firing became general. The Miamis fled
at the outset. Their chief rode up to the Pottowattamies, and said:
"'You have deceived the Americans and us. You have done a bad action,
and (brandishing his tomahawk) I will be the first to head a party of
Americans to return and punish your treachery.' So saying, he galloped
after his companions, who were now scouring across the prairies.
"The troops behaved most gallantly. They were but a handful, but they
seemed resolved to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Our horses
pranced and bounded, and could hardly be restrained as the balls
whistled among them. I drew off a little, and gazed upon my husband and
father, who were yet unharmed. I felt that my hour was come, and
endeavored to forget those I loved, and prepare myself for my
approaching fate.
"While I was thus engaged, the surgeon, Dr. Van Voorhees, came up. He
was badly wounded. His horse had been shot under him, and he had
received a ball in his leg. Every muscle of his face was quivering with
the agony of terror. He said to me, 'Do you think they will take our
lives? I am badly wounded, but I think not mortally. Perhaps we might
purchase our lives by promising them a large reward. Do you think there
is any chance?'
"'Dr. Van Voorhees,' said I, 'do not let us waste the few moments that
yet remain to us in such vain hopes. Our fate is inevitable. In a few
moments we must appear before the bar of God. Let us make what
preparation is yet in our power.'
"'Oh, I cannot die!' exclaimed he, 'I am not fit to die--if I had but a
short time to prepare--death is awful!'
"I pointed to Ensign Ronan, who, though mortally wounded and nearly
down, was still fighting with desperation on one knee.[35]
"'Look at that man!' said I. 'At least he dies like a soldier.'
"'Yes,' replied the unfortunate man, with a convulsive gasp, 'but he has
no terrors of the future--he is an unbeliever!'
"At this moment a young Indian raised his tomahawk at me. By springing
aside, I partially avoided the blow, which was intended for my skull,
but which alighted on my shoulder. I seized him around the neck, and
while exerting my utmost efforts to get possession of his
scalping-knife, which hung in a scabbard over his breast, I was dragged
from his grasp by another and older Indian.
"The latter bore me struggling and resisting towards the lake.
Notwithstanding the rapidity with which I was harried along, I
recognized, as I passed them, the lifeless remains of the unfortunate
surgeon. Some murderous tomahawk had stretched him upon the very spot
where I had last seen him.
"I was immediately plunged into the water and held there with a forcible
hand, notwithstanding my resistance. I soon perceived, however, that the
object of my captor was not to drown me, for he held me firmly in such a
position as to place my head above water. This reassured me, and,
regarding him attentively, I soon recognized, in spite of the paint with
which he was disguised, _The Black Partridge_.
"When the firing had nearly subsided, my preserver bore me from the
water and conducted me up the sand-banks. It was a burning August
morning, and walking through the sand in my drenched condition was
inexpressibly painful and fatiguing. I stooped and took off my shoes to
free them from the sand with which they were nearly filled, when a squaw
seized and carried them off, and I was obliged to proceed without them.
"When we had gained the prairie, I was met by my father, who told me
that my husband was safe and but slightly wounded. They led me gently
back towards the Chicago River, along the southern bank of which was the
Pottowattamie encampment. At one time I was placed upon a horse without
a saddle, but, finding the motion insupportable, I sprang off. Supported
partly by my kind conductor, _Black Partridge_, and partly by another
Indian, Pee-so-tum, who held dangling in his hand a scalp, which by the
black ribbon around the queue I recognized as that of Captain Wells, I
dragged my fainting steps to one of the wigwams.
"The wife of Wau-bee-nee-mah, a chief from the Illinois River, was
standing near, and, seeing my exhausted condition, she seized a kettle,
dipped up some water from a stream that flowed near,[36] threw into it
some maple-sugar, and, stirring it up with her hand, gave it me to
drink. This act of kindness, in the midst of so many horrors, touched me
most sensibly; but my attention was soon diverted to other objects.
"The fort had become a scene of plunder to such as remained after the
troops marched out. The cattle had been shot down as they ran at large,
and lay dead or dying around. This work of butchery had commenced just
as we were leaving the fort. I well remembered a remark of Ensign Ronan,
as the firing went on. 'Such,' turning to me, 'is to be our fate--to be
shot down like brutes!'
"'Well, sir,' said the commanding officer, who overheard him, 'are you
afraid?'
"'No,' replied the high-spirited young man, 'I can march up to the enemy
where you dare not show your face.' And his subsequent gallant behavior
showed this to be no idle boast.
"As the noise of the firing grew gradually less and the stragglers from
the victorious party came dropping in, I received confirmation of what
my father had hurriedly communicated in our _rencontre_ on the lake
shore; namely, that the whites had surrendered, after the loss of about
two-thirds of their number. They had stipulated, through the
interpreter, Peresh Leclerc, for the preservation of their lives, and
those of the remaining women and children, and for their delivery at
some of the British posts, unless ransomed by traders in the Indian
country. It appears that the wounded prisoners were not considered as
included in the stipulation, and a horrid scene ensued upon their being
brought into camp.
"An old squaw, infuriated by the loss of friends, or excited by the
sanguinary scenes around her, seemed possessed by a demoniac ferocity.
She seized a stable-fork and assaulted one miserable victim, who lay
groaning and writhing in the agony of his wounds, aggravated by the
scorching beams of the sun. With a delicacy of feeling scarcely to have
been expected under such circumstances, Wau-bee-nee-mah stretched a mat
across two poles, between me and this dreadful scene. I was thus spared
in some degree a view of its horrors, although I could not entirely
close my ears to the cries of the sufferer The following night five more
of the wounded prisoners were tomahawked."
* * * * *
The Americans, it appears, after their first attack by the Indians,
charged upon those who had concealed themselves in a sort of ravine,
intervening between the sand-banks and the prairie. The latter gathered
themselves into a body, and after some hard fighting, in which the
number of whites had become reduced to twenty-eight, this little band
succeeded in breaking through the enemy, and gaining a rising ground,
not far from the Oak Woods. Further contest now seeming hopeless,
Lieutenant Helm sent Peresh Leclerc, a half-breed boy in the service of
Mr. Kinzie, who had accompanied the detachment and fought manfully on
their side, to propose terms of capitulation. It was stipulated that the
lives of all the survivors should be spared, and a ransom permitted as
soon as practicable.
But in the mean time a horrible scene had been enacted. One young
savage, climbing into the baggage-wagon containing the children of the
white families, twelve in number, tomahawked the entire group. This was
during the engagement near the sand-hills. When Captain Wells, who was
fighting near, beheld it, he exclaimed,--
"Is that their game, butchering the women and children? Then I will
kill, too!"
So saying, he turned his horse's head, and started for the Indian camp,
near the fort, where had been left their squaws and children.
Several Indians pursued him as he galloped along. He laid himself flat
on the neck of his horse, loading and firing in that position, as he
would occasionally turn on his pursuers. At length their balls took
effect, killing his horse, and severely wounding himself. At this moment
he was met by _Winnemeg_ and _Wau-ban-see_, who endeavored to save him
from the savages who had now overtaken him. As they supported him along,
after having disengaged him from his horse, he received his death-blow
from another Indian, _Pee-so-tum_, who stabbed him in the back.
The heroic resolution of one of the soldiers' wives deserves to be
recorded. She was a Mrs. Corbin, and had, from the first, expressed the
determination never to fall into the hands of the savages, believing
that their prisoners were always subjected to tortures worse than death.
When, therefore, a party came upon her, to make her a prisoner, she
fought with desperation, refusing to surrender, although assured, by
signs, of safety and kind treatment, and literally suffered herself to
be cut to pieces, rather than become their captive.
There was a Sergeant Holt, who, early in the engagement, received a ball
in the neck. Finding himself badly wounded, he gave his sword to his
wife, who was on horseback near him, telling her to defend herself; he
then made for the lake, to keep out of the way of the balls. Mrs. Holt
rode a very fine horse, which the Indians were desirous of possessing,
and they therefore attacked her, in hopes of dismounting her.
They fought only with the butt-ends of their guns, for their object was
not to kill her. She hacked and hewed at their pieces as they were
thrust against her, now on this side, now that. Finally, she broke loose
from them, and dashed out into the prairie. The Indians pursued her,
shouting and laughing, and now and then calling out,--
"The brave woman! do not hurt her!"
At length they overtook her again, and, while she was engaged with two
or three in front, one succeeded in seizing her by the neck behind, and
dragging her, although a large and powerful woman, from her horse.
Notwithstanding that their guns had been so hacked and injured, and even
themselves cut severely, they seemed to regard her only with admiration.
They took her to a trader on the Illinois River, by whom she was
restored to her friends, after having received every kindness during her
captivity.[37]
Those of the family of Mr. Kinzie who had remained in the boat, near the
mouth of the river, were carefully guarded by Kee-po-tah and another
Indian. They had seen the smoke--then the blaze--and immediately after,
the report of the first tremendous discharge sounded in their ears. Then
all was confusion They realized nothing until they saw an Indian come
towards them from the battle-ground, leading a horse on which sat a
lady, apparently wounded.
"That is Mrs. Heald," cried Mrs. Kinzie. "That Indian will kill her.
Run, Chandonnai," to one of Mr. Kinzie's clerks, "take the mule that is
tied there, and offer it to him to release her."
Her captor, by this time, was in the act of disengaging her bonnet from
her head, in order to scalp her. Chandonnai ran up, and offered the mule
as a ransom, with the promise of ten bottles of whiskey as soon as they
should reach his village. The latter was a strong temptation.
"But," said the Indian, "she is badly wounded--she will die. Will you
give me the whiskey at all events?"
Chandonnai promised that he would, and the bargain was concluded. The
savage placed the lady's bonnet on his own head, and, after an
ineffectual effort on the part of some squaws to rob her of her shoes
and stockings, she was brought on board the boat, where she lay moaning
with pain from the many bullet-wounds she had received in both arms.
The horse Mrs. Heald had ridden was a fine, spirited animal, and, being
desirous of possessing themselves of it uninjured, the Indians had aimed
their shots so as to disable the rider, without injuring her steed.
She had not lain long in the boat, when a young Indian of savage aspect
was seen appapproaching buffalo robe was hastily drawn over her, and she
was admonished to suppress all sound of complaint, as she valued her
life.
The heroic woman remained perfectly silent, while the savage drew near.
He had a pistol in his hand, which he rested on the side of the boat,
while, with a fearful scowl, he looked pryingly around. Black Jim, one
of the servants, who stood in the bow of the boat, seized an axe that
lay near, and signed to him that if he shot, he would cleave his skull;
telling him that the boat contained only the family of Shaw-nee-aw-kee.
Upon this, the Indian retired. It afterwards appeared that the object of
his search was Mr. Burnett, a trader from St. Joseph's, with whom he
had some account to settle.
When the boat was at length permitted to return to the mansion of Mr.
Kinzie, and Mrs. Heald was removed to the house, it became necessary to
dress her wounds.
Mr. K. applied to an old chief who stood by, and who, like most of his
tribe, possessed some skill in surgery, to extract a ball from the arm
of the sufferer.
"No, father," replied he. "I cannot do it--it makes me sick
here"--(placing his hand on his heart.)
Mr. Kinzie then performed the operation himself, with his penknife.
At their own mansion the family of Mr. Kinzie were closely guarded by
their Indian friends, whose intention it was to carry them to Detroit
for security. The rest of the prisoners remained at the wigwams of their
captors.
The following morning, the work of plunder being completed, the Indians
set fire to the fort. A very equitable distribution of the finery
appeared to have been made, and shawls, ribbons, and feathers fluttered
about in all directions. The ludicrous appearance of one young fellow,
who had arrayed himself in a muslin gown and the bonnet of one of the
ladies, would, under other circumstances, have afforded matter of
amusement.
Black Partridge, Wau-ban-see, and Kee-po-tah, with two other Indians,
having established themselves in the porch of the building as sentinels,
to protect the family from any evil that the young men might be excited
to commit, all remained tranquil for a short space after the
conflagration.
Very soon, however, a party of Indians from the Wabash made their
appearance. These were, decidedly, the most hostile and implacable of
all the tribes of the Pottowattamies.
Being more remote, they had shared less than some of their brethren in
the kindness of Mr. Kinzie and his family, and consequently their
sentiments of regard for them were less powerful.
Runners had been sent to the villages to apprise them of the intended
evacuation of the post, as well as of the plan of the Indians assembled
to attack the troops.
Thirsting to participate in such a scene, they hurried on; and great was
their mortification, on arriving at the river Aux Plaines, to meet with
a party of their friends having with them their chief Nee-scot-nee-meg,
badly wounded, and to learn that the battle was over, the spoils
divided, and the scalps all taken.
On arriving at Chicago they blackened their faces, and proceeded towards
the dwelling of Mr. Kinzie.
From his station on the piazza Black Partridge had watched their
approach, and his fears were particularly awakened for the safety of
Mrs. Helm (Mr. Kinzie's step-daughter), who had recently come to the
post, and was personally unknown to the more remote Indians. By his
advice she was made to assume the ordinary dress of a Frenchwoman of the
country; namely, a short gown and petticoat, with a blue cotton
handkerchief wrapped around her head. In this disguise she was conducted
by Black Partridge himself to the house of Ouilmette, a Frenchman with a
half-breed wife, who formed a part of the establishment of Mr. Kinzie
and whose dwelling was close at hand.
It so happened that the Indians came first to this house, in their
search for prisoners. As they approached, the inmates, fearful that the
fair complexion and general appearance of Mrs. Helm might betray her for
an American, raised a large feather bed and placed her under the edge of
it, upon the bedstead, with her face to the wall. Mrs. Bisson, a
half-breed, the sister of Ouilmette's wife, then seated herself with
her sewing upon the front of the bed.
It was a hot day in August, and the feverish excitement of fear and
agitation, together with her position, which was nearly suffocating,
became so intolerable, that Mrs. Helm at length entreated to be released
and given up to the Indians.
"I can but die," said she; "let them put an end to my misery at once."
Mrs. Bisson replied, "Your death would be the destruction of us all, for
Black Partridge has resolved that if one drop of the blood of your
family is spilled, he will take the lives of all concerned in it, even
his nearest friends; and if once the work of murder commences, there
will be no end of it, so long as there remains one white person or
half-breed in the country."
This expostulation nerved Mrs. Helm with fresh resolution.
The Indians entered, and she could occasionally see them from her
hiding-place, gliding about, and stealthily inspecting every part of the
room, though without making any ostensible search, until, apparently
satisfied that there was no one concealed, they left the house.
All this time Mrs. Bisson had kept her seat upon the side of the bed,
calmly sorting and arranging the patch-work of the quilt on which she
was engaged, and preserving an appearance of the utmost tranquillity,
although she knew not but that the next moment she might receive a
tomahawk in her brain. Her self-command unquestionably saved the lives
of all present.
From Ouilmette's house the party of Indians proceeded to the dwelling of
Mr. Kinzie. They entered the parlor in which the family were assembled
with their faithful protectors, and seated themselves upon the floor in
silence. Black Partridge perceived from their moody and revengeful
looks what was passing in their minds, but he dared not remonstrate with
them. He only observed in a low tone to Wau-ban-see,--
"We have endeavored to save our friends, but it is in vain--nothing will
save them now."
At this moment a friendly whoop was heard from a party of new-comers on
the opposite bank of the river. Black Partridge sprang to meet their
leader, as the canoes in which they had hastily embarked touched the
bank near the house.
"Who are you?" demanded he.
"A man. Who are _you_?"
"A man like yourself. But tell me _who_ you are,"--meaning, Tell me your
disposition, and which side you are for.
"I am a _Sau-ga-nash_!"
"Then make all speed to the house--your friend is in danger, and you
alone can save him."
_Billy Caldwell_[38] for it was he, entered the parlor with a calm step,
and without a trace of agitation in his manner. He deliberately took off
his accoutrements and placed them with his rifle behind the door, then
saluted the hostile savages.
"How now, my friends! A good-day to you. I was told there were enemies
here, but I am glad to find only friends. Why have you blackened your
faces? Is it that you are mourning for the friends you have lost in
battle?" (purposely misunderstanding this token of evil designs.)
"Or is it that you are fasting? If so, ask our friend, here, and he
will give you to eat. He is the Indian's friend, and never yet refused
them what they had need of."
Thus taken by surprise, the savages were ashamed to acknowledge their
bloody purpose. They, therefore, said modestly that they came to beg of
their friends some white cotton in which to wrap their dead before
interring them. This was given to them, with some other presents, and
they took their departure peaceably from the premises.
Along with Mr. Kinzie's party was a non-commissioned officer who had
made his escape in a singular manner. As the troops were about leaving
the fort, it was found that the baggage-horses of the surgeon had
strayed off. The quartermaster-sergeant, Griffith, was sent to collect
them and bring them on, it being absolutely necessary to recover them,
since their packs contained part of the surgeon's apparatus, and the
medicines for the march.
This man had been for a long time on the sick report and for this reason
was given the charge of the baggage, instead of being placed with the
troops. His efforts to recover the horses being unsuccessful, he was
hastening to rejoin his party, alarmed at some appearances of disorder
and hostile indications among the Indians, when he was met and made
prisoner by To-pee-nee-bee.
Having taken from him his arms and accoutrements, the chief put him into
a canoe and paddled him across the river, bidding him make for the woods
and secrete himself. This he did; and the following day, in the
afternoon, seeing from his lurking-place that all appeared quiet, he
ventured to steal cautiously into the garden of Ouilmette, where he
concealed himself for a time behind some currant-bushes.
At length he determined to enter the house, and accordingly climbed up
through a small back window into the room where the family were. This
was just as the Wabash Indians had left the house of Ouilmette for that
of Mr. Kinzie. The danger of the sergeant was now imminent. The family
stripped him of his uniform and arrayed him in a suit of deer-skin, with
belt, moccasins, and pipe, like a French engagé. His dark complexion and
large black whiskers favored the disguise. The family were all ordered
to address him in French, and, although utterly ignorant of the
language, he continued to pass for a _Weem-tee-gosh_,[39] and as such to
accompany Mr. Kinzie and his family, undetected by his enemies, until
they reached a place of safety.
On the third day after the battle, the family of Mr. Kinzie, with the
clerks of the establishment, were put into a boat, under the care of
François, a half-breed interpreter, and conveyed to St. Joseph's, where
they remained until the following November, under the protection of
To-pee-nee-bee's band. They were then conducted to Detroit, under the
escort of Chandonnai and their trusty Indian friend, Kee-po-tah, and
delivered up, as prisoners of war, to Colonel McKee, the British Indian
Agent.
Mr. Kinzie was not allowed to leave St. Joseph's with his family, his
Indian friends insisting on his remaining and endeavoring to secure some
remnant of his scattered property. During his excursions with them for
that purpose, he wore the costume and paint of the tribe, in order to
escape capture and perhaps death at the hands of those who were still
thirsting for blood. In time, however, his anxiety for his family
induced him to follow them to Detroit, where, in the month of January,
he was received and paroled by General Proctor.
Captain and Mrs. Heald were sent across the lake to St. Joseph the day
after the battle. The former had received two wounds, the latter seven,
in the engagement.
Lieutenant Helm, who was likewise wounded, was carried by some friendly
Indians to their village on the Au Sable, and thence to Peoria, where he
was liberated by the intervention of Mr. Thomas Forsyth, the
half-brother of Mr. Kinzie. Mrs. Helm accompanied her parents to St.
Joseph, where they resided in the family of Alexander Robinson,[40]
receiving from them all possible kindness and hospitality for several
months.
After their arrival in Detroit, Mrs. Helm was joined by her husband,
when they were both arrested by order of the British commander, and sent
on horseback, in the dead of winter, through Canada to Fort George, on
the Niagara frontier. When they arrived at that post, there had been no
official appointed to receive them, and, notwithstanding their long and
fatiguing journey in weather the most cold and inclement, Mrs. Helm, a
delicate woman of seventeen years, was permitted to sit waiting in her
saddle, outside the gate, for more than an hour, before the refreshment
of fire or food, or even the shelter of a roof, was offered them. When
Colonel Sheaffe, who had been absent at the time, was informed of this
brutal inhospitality, he expressed the greatest indignation. He waited
on Mrs. Helm immediately, apologized in the most courteous manner, and
treated both her and Lieutenant Helm with the most considerate kindness,
until, by an exchange of prisoners, they were liberated, and found means
to reach their friends in Steuben County, N.Y.
Captain Heald had been taken prisoner by an Indian from the Kankakee,
who had a strong personal regard for him, and who, when he saw the
wounded and enfeebled state of Mrs. Heald, released her husband that he
might accompany his wife to St. Joseph. To the latter place they were
accordingly carried, as has been related, by Chandonnai and his party.
In the mean time, the Indian who had so nobly released his prisoner
returned to his village on the Kankakee, where he had the mortification
of finding that his conduct had excited great dissatisfaction among his
band. So great was the displeasure manifested, that he resolved to make
a journey to St. Joseph and reclaim his prisoner.
News of his intention being brought to To-pee-nee-bee and Kee-po-tah,
under whose care the prisoners were, they held a private council with
Chandonnai, Mr. Kinzie, and the principal men of the village, the result
of which was a determination to send Captain and Mrs. Heald to the
island of Mackinac, and deliver them up to the British.
They were accordingly put in a bark canoe, and paddled by Robinson and
his wife a distance of three hundred miles along the coast of Michigan,
and surrendered as prisoners of war to the commanding officer at
Mackinac.
As an instance of the procrastinating spirit of Captain Heald, it may be
mentioned that, even after he had received certain intelligence that his
Indian captor was on his way from the Kankakee to St. Joseph to retake
him, he would still have delayed another day at that place, to make
preparation for a more comfortable journey to Mackinac.
The soldiers, with their wives and surviving children, were dispersed
among the different villages of the Pottowattamies upon the Illinois,
Wabash, Rock River, and at Milwaukie, until the following spring, when
they were, for the most part, carried to Detroit and ransomed.
Mrs. Burns, with her infant, became the prisoner of a chief, who carried
her to his village and treated her with great kindness. His wife, from
jealousy of the favor shown to "the white woman" and her child, always
treated them with great hostility. On one occasion she struck the infant
with a tomahawk, and narrowly missed her aim of putting an end to it
altogether.[41] They were not left long in the power of the old hag
after this demonstration, but on the first opportunity were carried to a
place of safety.
The family of Mr. Lee had resided in a house on the Lake shore, not far
from the fort. Mr. Lee was the owner of Lee's Place, which he cultivated
as a farm. It was his son who ran down with the discharged soldier to
give the alarm of "Indians," at the fort, on the afternoon of the 7th of
April. The father, the son, and all the other members of the family had
fallen victims on the 15th of August, except Mrs. Lee and her young
infant. These were claimed by Black Partridge, and carried to his
village on the Au Sable. He had been particularly attached to a little
girl of Mrs. Lee's, about twelve years of age. This child had been
placed on horseback for the march; and, as she was unaccustomed to the
exercise, she was tied fast to the saddle, lest by any accident she
should slip off or be thrown.
She was within reach of the balls at the commencement of the engagement,
and was severely wounded. The horse set off on a full gallop, which
partly threw her, but she was held fast by the bands which confined her,
and hung dangling as the animal ran violently about. In this state she
was met by Black Partridge, who caught the horse and disengaged her from
the saddle. Finding her so much wounded that she could not recover, and
that she was suffering great agony, he put the finishing stroke to her
at once with his tomahawk. He afterwards said that this was the hardest
thing he ever tried to do, but he did it because he could not bear to
see her suffer.
He took the mother and her infant to his village, where he became warmly
attached to the former--so much so, that he wished to marry her; but, as
she very naturally objected, he treated her with the greatest respect
and consideration. He was in no hurry to release her, for he was in
hopes of prevailing on her to become his wife. In the course of the
winter her child fell ill. Finding that none of the remedies within
their reach were effectual, Black Partridge proposed to take the little
one to Chicago, where there was now a French trader living in the
mansion of Mr. Kinzie, and procure some medical aid from him. Wrapping
up his charge with the greatest care, he set out on his journey.
When he arrived at the residence of M. Du Pin, he entered the room where
he was, and carefully placed his burden on the floor.
"What have you there?" asked M. Du Pin.
"A young raccoon, which I have brought you as a present," was the reply;
and, opening the pack, he showed the little sick infant.
When the trader had prescribed for its complaint, and Black Partridge
was about to return to his home, he told his friend of the proposal he
had made to Mrs. Lee to become his wife, and the manner in which it had
been received.
M. Du Pin, entertaining some fears that the chief's honorable resolution
to leave it to the lady herself whether to accept his addresses or not,
might not hold out, entered at once into a negotiation for her ransom,
and so effectually wrought upon the good feelings of Black Partridge
that he consented to bring his fair prisoner at once to Chicago, that
she might be restored to her friends.
Whether the kind trader had at the outset any other feeling in the
matter than sympathy and brotherly kindness, we cannot say; we only know
that in process of time Mrs. Lee became Madame Du Pin, and that the
worthy couple lived together in great happiness for many years after.
The fate of Nau-non-gee, one of the chiefs of the Calumet village, and
who is mentioned in the early part of the narrative, deserves to be
recorded.
Daring the battle of the 15th of August, the chief object of his attack
was one Sergeant Hays, a man from whom he had received many acts of
kindness.
After Hays had received a ball through the body, this Indian ran up to
him to tomahawk him, when the sergeant, collecting his remaining
strength, pierced him through the body with his bayonet. They fell
together. Other Indians running up soon dispatched Hays, and it was not
until then that his bayonet was extracted from the body of his
adversary.
The wounded chief was carried after the battle to his village on the
Calumet, where he survived for several days. Finding his end
approaching, he called together his young men, and enjoined them, in the
most solemn manner, to regard the safety of their prisoners after his
death, and to take the lives of none of them from respect to his memory,
as he deserved his fate from the hands of those whose kindness he had so
ill requited.